


Under the April Skies

by HaveAGoodeDay



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - The Walking Dead Fusion, Angst, Blood and Gore, F/F, First Meetings, Post-Apocalypse, Road Trips, Shameless Smut, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2019-10-23 13:23:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17684297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaveAGoodeDay/pseuds/HaveAGoodeDay
Summary: Cordelia Foxx finds herself out too late, with the sun setting on her way home. Misty Day is lonely, kind, and offering her a safe place to sleep. Neither of them had a clue it'd be more than one warm, summer night they found comfort in each other's arms...Alternatively titled; The Zombie Alternative Universe Nobody Asked For.





	1. New Orleans

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song April Skies by Jesus and the Mary Chain because it fits this fic quite well.
> 
> Thank you to my beta-readers! I hope you all enjoy this story.

The worst part of the end of the world has to be the  _ smell;  _ a pungent odor that stinks of death lingering in the air. The sweet stink of decomposing bodies; both unmoving, and walking amongst the rubble of society. Cordelia pulls at the bandana around her face, her breath hot as she breathes against the thin fabric. It loosens, and she lets it fall from the bridge of her nose to instead reside around her neck. The red cotton makes her sunburn stand out more where it paints her cheeks a lively crimson. 

 

The general store has been pretty much picked through. Her eyes scan the signs in front of each aisle, and her fingers hold tightly to the baseball bat in her left hand. The right one stays ready on the holstered pistol on her hip. Her backpack is already heavy with supplies, and it shifts with her as she steps into the brightly lit store. The center of its ceiling caved in and illuminating the shelves. There’s papers that stick to the floor with age, with rain water making them a splotchy mess of ruined ink.  

 

The metal displays provide a nice, echoing  _ ding ding  _ as she taps them with the tip of her melee weapon. The store remains quiet - there’s no responding groans. Nothing gets up, nothing moves except a bird fleeing out the hole in the roof. There’s a roll of lottery tickets that crunches under her combat boot as she steps on them where they’ve spilled onto the ground. On the broken cash register hangs a neatly printed sign.  _ Out of Gas.  _

 

Cordelia’s fingers drift off her gun, they linger in the air a moment as her eyes scan the counter displays. A scented cutout tree for a rear view mirror promises  _ hawaiian dreams,  _ so the blonde uses her teeth to rip the plastic open and sniff experimentally at the inside of the package.  _ Not bad,  _ Cordelia’s head tilts and her eyes widen. The string on it makes it easy to tie to her necklace - the thin thread looping around the simple dull silver chain. The idea of tucking it under her bandana when she pulls it up makes Cordelia nod to herself.  _ It’s the little things.  _

 

The evening sunset brings with it a muggy heat that makes her shirt damp with perspiration and Cordelia sighs as she grabs a handful more of the scented trees, as she stuffs gum into her pockets. Her hand lands on a snickers bar - horribly past its best by date - and the back door to the gas station eases open with a long creak of its hinges. The candy in her palm drops to the floor as she fumbles for her gun. Cordelia brings it up in a one-handed hold, and her fingers twirl the bat to better hold it outward defensively toward the sound. 

 

“Don’t shoot.” The voice; feminine, southern, and not in the least bit  _ dead  _ calls out to her. Cordelia keeps her aim, and as a curly blonde haired young woman steps around the coolers into view she widens her stance. The store’s small enough they’re only a few feet apart. Close enough Cordelia can see the freckles splattered on the stranger’s crinkled nose. Watches her throat bob as she swallows, glancing at the pistol pointed at her. Cordelia’s finger eases off the trigger as blue eyes lock on her own brown ones. “I’m nothin’ much of a threat.” 

 

_ Nothing much of a threat  _ is odd coming from her given the arsenal of blades she carries, the leather tool belt slung across her hips that boasts a collection of serrated knives stuffed into the sheaths sewn into it. There’s a long piece of the dark, thick material around her chest, and the barrel of a rifle is visible over her shoulder. But given the state of their situation, Cordelia’s not surprised about the array of weapons. She looks at the floral, embroidered shawl wrapped and tied around the woman’s waist, and the tank top she wears looking more like a corset than a shirt. The hot New Orleans summer has sweat beaded on her skin, and the toned muscles of her biceps glint in the light as she raises her hands in a trusting surrender. 

 

“I’m Misty,” she introduces, and Cordelia wonders if she does so to help Cordelia’s nervousness. If it paints across her face. She hasn’t shot anyone living yet, and the possibility of doing such makes her stomach churn. Maybe that’s why Misty keeps going, “I’ve been holin’ up in the back room for about a month now. Heard you come in.” 

 

So Cordelia’s the trespasser here. 

 

“There’s been some guys riding around a truck,” Misty starts, and she keeps her hands up even as Cordelia’s gun lowers to point at the floor. There’s dirt on her palms, and calluses that thicken the pads of her fingers. “I thought maybe they’d stopped.” A sour look crosses her features, but they light back up with a grin as she waves her hand slowly at Cordelia. “Imagine my surprise when a pretty lady walked in instead.”

 

The compliment makes Cordelia blush, and she offers back her own name in an attempt to bridge the unsteady gap between them. “Cordelia, Cordelia Goode.” A strand of her hair falls in front of her eye, and the older woman blows at it before carefully holstering her pistol. “Sorry for uh-the gun, but…”

 

Misty smiles at her, a bright and friendly thing that makes Cordelia feel easier in resting her defenses just a bit. “Oh I get it! Not many people that ain’t trying to eat you left.” Misty lets her arms down, and she points to the boarded up windows. “The biters - those things, they’ve been stumblin’ through the swamps for a while, chased me right out of my shack.”

 

“The swamps?” Cordelia questions - and the dimples on Misty’s cheeks deepen at the mention of marshland. The skirt she wears in the color of coffee stained paper, and ripped to a length that swishes around her knees as she bounces in brown, muddy boots. 

 

“I’ve been out there since it started.”  _ Five years.  _ Cordelia wonders how she’s stayed put so long, given the state of things. Those left living move like migrating animals across a predatory landscape, including herself. Cordelia’s group has moved across the city of New Orleans in a sweeping fashion, and the house they’re holed up in now - an abandoned finishing school, boasts high, spiked fences and solid construction. She can’t imagine staying in a place for longer than a month unless it featured the same amenities, much less in the wild. “Nothin’ much wanders through, and those that do get stuck in the mud pits.” 

 

Misty flashes her teeth; and she chomps them together in a soft clack that shouldn’t make Cordelia’s cheeks tint as red as they do. “The gators take care of those poor fellas.”

 

She wants to ask Misty if she’s been alone the entire time, but the inquiry would most likely bring up family lost and friends faded into the cracks of a shattered past. Something about how excited the woman is  _ barely  _ woman, not much older than twenty three, Cordelia would guess she’s been on her own for awhile. She bounces in her shoes, and Cordelia finds no fear in Misty’s steel blue eyes as she talks. The ground underfoot is uneven with trash; Cordelia balances on it and she huffs out a breath. “It got darker faster than I expected.”  _ I should be trying to get back, not chatting with you.  _ Her nerves tighten in her throat. The prospect of spending the evening out and laying in alertness sounding not too comforting after a day of combing through looted storefronts. 

 

“Winter’s comin’.” Misty bobs her head, agreeing with Cordelia as it darkens outside. The streaks of reddish orange paint across a yellow sunset, and the color of it tints the lighting - makes Misty look even prettier with each passing minute. Louisiana promises a temperate winter, but still the days become short and duller with clouded skies. Misty takes a short breath, audible and catching Cordelia’s attention from watching the tassels that dance across Misty’s thighs. “You can stay here, if you want.”

 

The offer is accompanied by a soft tone, it raises at the end with hopefulness. Misty wrings her hands together. She twists her many rings and lets the bigger ones spin around her fingers as she looks down at them. Cordelia bites her bottom lip; considers it.  _ You don’t know her.  _ The knives on the stranger’s belt are still very much sharp and deadly.  _ She could slit your throat while you sleep!  _

 

Another, kinder part of her thinks,  _ you pose as much of a danger to her as she does to you.  _ Misty’s trusting her; something that means more than it ever did before shit went to Hell in a handbasket. Cordelia’s about to take her up on the offer, and the tension in her shoulders relaxes just in time for a loud bubbling groan to sound outside. The front window shakes in its frame and the wooden planks nailed to support it rattle against the glass as something runs into the building. 

 

Misty grabs her knife - Cordelia’s bat is readied in both hands. The boards block the view, only the upper part of the windows lets in the sunset’s shine. Still, a human form shadows against the gaps of the wood. Misty’s voice has lowered considerably as she asks, “You closed the door?” 

 

“Of course.” Cordelia murmurs back. The deadbolt on it had still been intact. The thing outside backs up, and its body again shakes the window as it bounces into it again. 

 

“It’ll hold.” 

 

“You’re sure?”

 

“More than one of ‘em have tried to take it down.” Misty soothes. Her hair moves as she turns around, the single red feather earring she wears flashing in the curtain of blonde curls that nearly buries it. She steps back toward the back room and she extends a hand back toward Cordelia in a sweet proposal and kind smirk. “C’mon, I’ve got all the good candy back here.” 

 

When Cordelia walks forward and her fingers grab Misty’s she’s surprised by the warmth of the the woman’s palm against her own. She gives a smile back, and Misty’s eyes narrow as her grin widens, pushing her cheeks up. There’s a smudge of dirt on Misty’s cheekbone, and Cordelia has the random urge to lick her thumb and swipe it clean. 

 

“Then by all means, lead the way.”

  
  


A box of  _ Reeses Pieces  _ is thrown to her easily, the candy creating a noisy rattle in its package as Cordelia’s hands catch the item. The back room has a heavy metal door that shuts with a bar falling into place, spacey enough with massive metal storage racks removed. The places they stood are marked with holes in the concrete where they’d been bolted down to the floor. A few candles are easily lit, and Misty only blows out the match after lighting each dripping wax pillar. There’s a ladder in the corner, and a hatch leading to what could only be the rooftop. 

 

Misty waves her hand, and she glances at Cordelia stood awkwardly by the door. The older blonde follows the gesture, and her eyes land upon a mattress on the ground lacking sheets. One pillow lays on the makeshift bed with no case and the tag yellowed with age. “Sit down.” Misty encourages. Cordelia can’t help but watch as she wiggles her hips - the belt of knives working down on her pelvis until it falls down her legs to land by her toes. “Are you hungry? I got more than candy, you know.” 

 

“This is fine.” Cordelia undoes her own belt, and lays it atop a safe that’s door was ripped from its hinges. Her pistol makes her feel safe, and her bat props against the wall where she can grab it quickly. “Thank you.” When she sits on the mattress it squeaks under her weight, and the springs do their jump of making her bounce slightly. The candy is stale, chocolate turning white with age but still sweet and the peanut butter is pleasantly gritty against her tongue. 

 

The candlelights flicker, and the silhouette of Misty’s shadow casts against the flat surface behind her. She unties her shawl from her hips, drapes it over a nail hammered into the wall. Cordelia feels horrible for staring, especially when the other woman’s arms cross over each other and she grabs the hem of her shirt. She pulls up without even considering to turn away from Cordelia. The room feels too warm and cramped, and Cordelia wishes for a window to air out the space as she spins her head to avoid seeing Misty’s bare chest more than the accidental view. 

 

She invests her attention in her own fingernails, stares at the blunt tips of them and the lines of dirt under them. The tips discolored yellow, and chipped pale pink polish nearly completely gone save a few stubborn flecks. Her habit of chewing them had somehow been easy to drop, when they’d become a bed of filth from salvaging supplies. 

 

Too busy looking at them, Cordelia startles when the metal bucket sloshes next to her as Misty places it down. It’s rusted on the outside, and a soapy scrap of fabric hangs off the side. “Ain’t much,” Misty starts, and Cordelia looks up to see her blush. Her feet are bare, and she curls her toes as she stands next to her guest. She’s changed into a plain tank top, one that looks soft and worn, no longer a bleached white but turned eggshell with age. “But it’ll get your hands clean - and you got somethin’ right here, on your neck.” Misty taps her fingers against her own throat as a guide. 

 

“Thanks.” The water is warm, mostly from being room temperature and not from being heated. Hot water has to be a luxury she didn’t realized she’d have missed so much. As she washes her hands, Misty plops down next to her on the bed. She criss-crosses her legs under herself and chews on something that looks and smells like jerky. “You’re too nice, by the way.” Cordelia blurts out, warning as a sense of worry floods her chest. She barely knows this stranger, but she seems  _ kind  _ and it’s going to get her killed.  _ Or worse.  _ “You shouldn’t trust people so quickly.”

 

“I shouldn’t trust you?” Misty raises an eyebrow at her, and Cordelia wonders if she really does see Misty’s eyes flicker down to her chest as water drips from the rag into the valley of her cleavage. “I like to think I’m a pretty good judge of character, Miss Cordelia - you don’t seem like you could hurt a fly.”

 

The formal title of her name has a way about being more  _ charming  _ than business like as it comes from Misty’s twang. She doesn’t seem a bit put on edge, though she does perk up when Cordelia speaks. 

 

“I still appreciate this.” Cordelia makes sure to convey a sincerity behind the words. “You didn’t have to, and you  _ shouldn’t  _ have, but I’m thankful you did.” The heat of the day has made her head spin with a dull ache, “I was ready to fall asleep in a car off the side of the road.” 

 

“I’m guessin’ this has a bit better accommodations?”

 

It’s been too long since Cordelia last felt the flutter of butterflies that swells in her stomach as she nods an answer. She almost wonders if she’s just reading the flirty smirk and the way Misty’s thigh purposefully presses against her own. The sound of cicadas can be heard through the walls, and the dead that came knocking has most likely moved on. Misty’s hand catches her own, takes the rag with a gentle touch. “You missed it. The spot.”

 

There’s certainly something  _ there,  _ when Misty leans against her shoulder and she ducks her head as she uses the wet cloth to wipe Cordelia’s neck for her. The rag feels much colder when paired with the warmth of a woman’s fingers dragged along after it. “There. All good.”

 

“Good?” Cordelia tilts her chin up, letting Misty take a look. 

 

“Perfect.” 

  
  
  


Sleep does not come easily. 

 

Cordelia lays on her side, one arm under the pillow and the other drawing idle patterns on the mattress below her. Without candlelight, the room is pitch black. Cordelia holds her breath and listens to Misty’s slow, steady, and sleeping snores next to her. Without having to look Cordelia knows how she’s positioned. On her back, one arm slung over her head and the other over her stomach. The knuckles of the latter tickle at Cordelia’s ribs if she moves at all.  _ She’s a heavy sleeper.  _

 

She thinks bitterly that it probably would have helped to undress a bit. Her jeans are old and well-fitted, but they still feel stiff and the denim shifting on her legs is far too distracting for her to get comfortable enough to doze off. Cordelia instead counts in her head the time in between Misty’s noisy inhales and her airy exhales; and wonders if maybe she can’t sleep because of her. 

 

Not in a bad way of course - Misty’s been nothing but sweet. No, Cordelia instead feels shame in the way she leans toward the warmth of another living body. The older woman knows she has other people, that Misty’s been considerably more alone than herself. Still Myrtle, Madison, Queenie, Zoe, Kyle - they all lack a certain thing that flips her tummy and makes her heartbeat pound in her ears. Misty possesses it. She carries it in every ounce of her being. Unknowingly so.  

 

Then to make matters worse a very heavy,  _ very  _ muscular arm flings itself across Cordelia’s abdomen. Misty’s figure nestles against the back of hers like a puzzle piece; the roundness of Cordelia’s rear fitting into place as Misty spoons her. The action makes Misty’s snore echo loudly in the shell of Cordelia’s ear, the closeness of her lips making the sound vibrate through the air. But the resting becomes fitful and Cordelia feels Misty’s hand tighten around her, pulling her closer. Snoring turns to whimpering, and the heaviness of Misty’s unconscious weight lessens as she becomes tense.  _ Nightmare,  _ Cordelia frowns. It’s not unfamiliar, given the whole  _ things trying to eat you  _ thing. The older woman turns in Misty’s arms, and the motion makes Misty jump into wakeful fear.

 

“Shush,” Cordelia smoothes back messy blonde curls, clearing Misty’s face of the strands sticking to her drool-moistened cheeks. She can’t see her at all, the room completely blacked out. “It’s me, Cordelia, do you remember?” 

 

Again, she doesn't see but she feels Misty’s nod. Feels Misty’s hand come up and lay over her own to keep it cupping her cheek. There’s soft shuffling and Misty’s foot hooks on Cordelia’s lower leg, dragging her toes over the soft and short hairs that prickle under the touch. “Bad dream.” 

 

It’s hotter with them pressed together, and the already warm air doubles in its intensity with Misty’s warm breath on her collarbone. “I have them too.” She wants her to know there’s nothing to be embarrassed of, but she’s beginning to wonder if Misty’s burrowing closer to her in a vain attempt to stifle her bashfulness. Especially when she hears a distinctive sniff of her hair.

 

“You smell good.” 

 

“I smell good?” Cordelia taken back; she wonders what smells good about her. Sweat, a lack of a shower for two long days in the sun, her clothes and their collection of various noxious fumes. She smells like gasoline and her hair stinks from a stale cigarette smoked as she walked. 

 

“You smell alive.” Misty corrects. 

 

Her hands have absentmindedly started twirling themselves in Misty’s hair, wrapping themselves up in the natural waves. “I hope so.” She can’t help but scoot closer, “Misty, can I ask you something?”

 

“Anything.”

 

Without being able to see, Cordelia can still vaguely guess where Misty’s mouth is. There’s hitched breathing, and a soft sigh as she tugs gently on Misty’s hair where she holds it. She desperately wishes they left the candles burning so she could read Misty’s face when she asks, “Can I kiss you?”

 

Her thumb trails over Misty’s chin, it bumps into her bottom lip and grazes the chapped skin as it moves with her answer. “Please.” 

 

The taste of beef jerky is overpowered by the faded flavor of  _ morning  _ breath as Misty parts her lips. Cordelia’s tongue fits nicely against the roof of her mouth, and she sucks on the muscle in a way that makes the aftertaste of candy mingle with her own more savory blend. Misty’s nose flares as she remembers to breathe, and she tilts her head so it doesn’t bump into Cordelia’s on accident. It's so dark she forgets to close her eyes. Cordelia’s eyelashes brush against her cheek as hers flutter shut. 

 

The kiss turns heated within minutes, and Misty steadies herself with two well placed palms on Cordelia’s chest as she rolls atop her new friend. She keeps their mouths connected, and her fingers dig under the cups of Cordelia’s frayed bra with the slight pressure. 

 

Cordelia racks her brain for an excuse; a way to justify the sudden shift in their admittedly short relationship. Somehow she doesn’t find it in herself to  _ care,  _ instead enjoying Misty’s hips settled on her own.  _ We could die tomorrow.  _ Callused fingers run across her lower stomach, and the pliable flesh dips as Misty grabs the hem of her shirt.  _ Why not live tonight? _

 

Misty is the one who breaks their kiss with a wet  _ pop  _ of her lips smacking.  She tugs Cordelia’s top over her head and takes the bra with it.The bare mattress scratches against her newly exposed back. A groan rumbles in Cordelia throat as Misty lays wet kisses to her jaw, missing her mark with being able to see as she works a searching blaze of hickeys down Cordelia’s chest.  

 

The air is not cold and no breeze turns up the room, but still Cordelia’s nipples tighten into pointed peaks. They poke Misty’s palms until she moves them and licks a long, generous circle around each of her breasts respectfully. Misty’s mouth suckles on the fatty tissue, her saliva wetting the bumps of Cordelia’s areolas. 

 

“M-Misty,” Her voice cracks. The hiccup of her words times itself with her hips canting up into Misty’s form. Her jeans ride lower as her heels push down onto the bed. “Misty,  _ please.”  _ There’s a deep longing that pulls at the tension in her belly.  _ I want to watch.  _ “Misty- _ fuck,  _ Misty I can’t see you.”

 

Cordelia curses herself when the weight of her partner is cruelly pulled from her; leaving her to lay with only her buzzing ears for company. Her eyes blink up at the ceiling rapidly, and Misty swears under her breath as she pats the floor nearby - looking for matches. The match she does find flicks like a gunshot as it snaps into a flame. Flickering to life with a strike. The fire brightens up the room enough, and Misty’s flushed appearance. A red blush coloring down her chest, lips swollen, and pupils blown large. Her fingers grapple for thick candles, the wax items tipping over with the speed of which Misty’s knuckles bump into them. The jeans cling to Cordelia’s thighs - she kicks them with vigor to send them into the dark of the room.

 

The space lights up, and she only reaches a total of five (enough they can see in the yellow glow, but the corners of the room are hidden in black shadows) before Cordelia grabs her wrist. She holds it steady as she blows out the match, breath ending the dance of the charring wooden stick. The action makes Misty gulp and look at her like she’s done something so much lewder than simply blowing out a flame.

 

Now lit up, Misty settles herself between Cordelia’s legs; pats at the thighs framing her face until they hike up onto her shoulders. Ankles crossing to keep her feet from sliding off to the sides, Cordelia uses the locked position to mildly compel Misty forward. Her panties had been taken along with her pants, and a blush crawls up her cheeks as the unruliness of her wiry, dark blonde curls brushes against Misty’s nose. Shaving hasn’t been a top priority. 

 

As if sensing her sudden timidity Misty closes her eyes - takes a deep breath, and without notice or hesitation moves her head forward with her tongue peeking between her teeth. Misty keeps her head still, she doesn’t move to place a long lick or taste the heady aroma of Cordelia’s arousal from the source. A series of assessing prods at her clitoris make Cordelia bite her knuckles; make her teeth create marks in skin there. At the noise that draws from the back of Cordelia’s throat, Misty sweeps her tongue in a tightly drawn circle. 

 

Cordelia’s fingers grapple in the mess of her hair - one palm holding Misty in place, the other acting as a silencer to the muffled groans that pant from between Cordelia’s lips. Misty’s eyes roll up to watch Cordelia’s head tip back, the other woman’s blonde curls pooling in a halo of gold that reflects the light of the candles around them. The strands carry an extra oiliness about them from days without a proper washing. With Cordelia’s eyes screwed shut, her skull pushing back into the bed, Misty watches her chin drop in a long, silent moan as she pushes herself into her work. Quite literally up to her  _ nose  _ in Cordelia.

 

She can’t talk around her fingers between her teeth - except something that sounds like  _ Misty;  _ all wrapped up in a moan that catches in the back of her throat. Her hips tilt up, a pornographic slurping sound coming from below as Misty increases her efforts as Cordelia gets progressively louder. Short fingernails dig into scalp. Misty wraps her arms around Cordelia’s thighs, using them to keep herself steady and in place and the other woman trembles, her pelvis jumping as she boils like a tea kettle whistling on a stovetop. In the candlelight, the spatters of the freckles on her chest heave with a great breath. Her breasts move with her hands pawing at the top of Misty’s head as she orgasms; announcing it on a rushed and high pitched sigh. “Oh-my- _ god,  _ Muh-Misty- I’m cu-”

 

Her words are cut off, Misty replacing her mouth with her fingers, letting the tips of them ease her through her climax. With grace, and only one knee almost slipping off the mattress, Misty crawls up to properly kiss Cordelia through the rest of it. It’s open mouthed - Cordelia’s dazed, and her teeth knock into Misty’s with the frantic affection. Misty herself relaxes down, her cheek - wet and slightly sticky - presses into Cordelia’s as her hand stops its urgent motions. 

 

They lay still, a shared kiss breaking apart the rhythm of their breathing. Cordelia smiles, an expression that’s soft with tenderness in the dim light. “Your turn.” She murmurs. 

 

Cordelia’s palm times itself horribly. She places it on Misty’s jawline, and the loud and unsettling sound of glass shattering makes the bubble they’ve settled into pop with the worried crinkle of Misty’s brow. 

 

“What was that?” Cordelia questions; eyes widening. 

 

“Let me go look.” Misty soothes Cordelia with a lingering kiss, standing up from the bed. She gives herself a spare moment to commit the image of the older woman laying naked on her bed to her memory, even if she’s looking at her with a gloss of concern over her brown eyes. The chocolate colored pools reflecting golden flames. “I’ll be right back.” 

 

“I think they broke the window.” 

 

Misty frowns. “Get dressed.”

 

“Dressed?” 

 

“We might need to hit the road.” Her southern accent is more noticable, clinging to each word with her lower tone of voice. She pulls on a tee shirt over her white tank -  _ Fleetwood Mac,  _ and toes on her boots. 

 

_ I don’t ever want to leave this room.  _ Cordelia can’t help but think, as she searches for her clothing. The world has gotten to be so bleak, so dead, every spring of life smothered out and trampled by the haunting shells of the human species stumbling over them. Her jeans ease back on her legs, and she puts on her top just as Misty cracks open the door. Seconds later, as she stands up shakily, Misty pushes it back shut. Locking them back in. 

 

When she turns around, her hair moving a whirlwind of bedhead, the younger woman’s face is a ghostly white. She presses her back into the steel door, and something like fear washes over her lively features as she glances at Cordelia zipping her pants up. 

 

“We need to go  _ now.”  _


	2. The Academy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the loml Sammuel for helping me with this chapter and Esme for proof reading ily both

Misty’s backpack pulls on Cordelia’s shoulders, heavy with a varied selection of supplies; canned goods, water, a sleeping bag strung across the top, and a mason jar filled with a muddy paste Misty had sniffed before shoving into the bag. The pack bounces with each bump the dirtbike under them speeds over. Its vibrations numbing Cordelia’s legs, and her arms tighten around Misty’s middle in a  _ slightly  _ fearful hold. 

 

The bike is loud - but Cordelia’s head rests on Misty’s shoulder, and when she speaks directions, they’re easily heard by the proximity of her mouth to the other woman’s ear. The familiar oak trees flank either side of the neighborly street as Misty eases the bike down the road per Cordelia’s words. The bike rumbles softly, Misty settling on letting it coast to prevent its engine from drawing unwanted attention with hitting the gas. 

 

The evenly spaced, now derelict homes speak of old money. Shadowing the uncared for overgrown yellowing lawns, each house seems to be much larger than the average residence. Most of them have fences, wrought iron and spiked. They’re halfway down the street when Cordelia chokes up. 

 

Misty instantly plants her boots on the pavement, the soles of them skidding on the ground as it stops the bike’s easy movement. She can't fully turn toward Cordelia, but her heel kicks down the stand of her bike as the arms around her waist loosen and unwrap. Cordelia stumbles as she hops off the backseat - pitching forward and preparing to fall with her palms to catch her on the ground. 

 

Though the skin of her hands does not get scraped or cut. The pebbles of the road do not dig into her palms.  Instead, her forearm is caught in the grip of Misty, who’s suddenly at her side; pulling her up so she doesn’t tumble to the ground. She doesn’t hug her - no, she supports her with hands on either of her biceps, holding her at arm’s length as to better look her in the eyes.

 

“What’s wrong?” Misty asks - she  _ demands,  _ and Cordelia wonders if her face gives away her panic. Looking at Misty, it turns her back to what’s she feels her eyes welling over. The tall white house, with white pillars and flower beds overgrown and untended. The gate is swung  _ open. _ Open. The gate, the door, a shattered window with glass gleaming in the grass below it.

 

“We never leave the gate open.” Cordelia speaks, and it surprises even herself how broken she sounds. The images of each of her girls flashes through her head.  _ Zoe, Madison, Queenie.  _ Her throat closes and she chokes on a tearful hiccup,  _ Myrtle.  _ “We  _ never  _ leave it open.”

 

“Hey,” Misty sways a bit closer, and Cordelia realizes it’s her trying to keep her still - that Misty’s keeping her from breaking away. “Hey- Cordelia, stop.” The older woman’s fingers find purchase on Misty’s shirt - knotting in the fabric of what she can call barely more than a stranger. Yet, there’s comfort found in the warmth of another person; Cordelia blubbers as she leans into Misty instead of attempting to break away. The height difference helps guide the older woman’s head to rest against the nape of Misty’s sunkissed neck. “ _ Cher,  _ you can’t go running off into an infested house like that.” 

 

The affection term does little to calm Cordelia’s rapid breathing. Her eyes drift shut - for a moment only. To simply smell the gasoline that Misty spilled on her own boots a few miles back. Her teeth nip her bottom lip. Pulling the skin between them to better worry the flesh as her eyes mist over.

 

“Seems like they’re packing up out back, yeah?” Misty notices, her chin jutting out as she leans and looks at the home. There’s a few lingering amongst the front lawn. “C’mon, Cordelia, can you hold my hand?” 

 

_ Hold my hand.  _ She’s known Misty three days;  _ three days.  _ Three days that had comforted her more than an entire marriage had. More than her mother had, that’s for sure.  Sharing a place to sleep in passing - sharing meals and laughing at the way Misty’s nose scrunches at certain smells. How her steel-blue eyes dart to follow noises and her hand grabs for Cordelia’s. Much like it does now. 

 

Her steadiness comforts Cordelia now, too. She lets the taller blonde lead her to the fence line, her own fingers twitching to tighten around Misty’s until the skin of her knuckles - bruised, with scrapes on the surface from scavenging - whitens with the pressure. The fence’s heavy gate would have swung in the wind if not for the decomposed body propping it open. The toe of Misty’s boot catches on the fabric of the dead’s shirt, and as it pulls the sleeve the hand attached keeps the motion of the kick. The three fingers that have remained attached loop weakly around Misty’s ankle. The jolt in her walk makes Cordelia’s free hand off her bat and go to catch Misty’s shoulder. 

 

“Fuck.” She murmurs; seeing the pathetic mess of death at their shoes. The hot and burning New Orleans sun cooks the edges of bodily fluids and matters against the pavement. Something that looks eerily like intestines bakes a stain into the concrete. The deep red gore is joined shortly by the thick black ooze, spilling from the split of the  _ thing’s  _ head as Cordelia’s heel breaks the soft, giving bone of what was once a skull. 

Now, instead of protecting the brain, it clings to the soles of Cordelia’s shoe as she pulls away. The fingers around Misty’s ankle no longer have a grip. A short nod accompanied by a quick, closed mouth and deep dimpled smile is as far of a thank you as Misty can offer. With the hoard of the dead no doubt nearby, any unnecessary sound can go unsaid. 

 

The sidewalk trailing up to the front porch is in no better of a condition then the place it meets the streetside. Stained with death, Misty leads Cordelia until the older blonde takes the role of guiding Misty up the few steps to stand on the doormat that displays a friendly  _ Welcome!  _ is grungy and blemished with a foul scented mix of pulpiness on top. The inside of the home is visible, with the door open and casting sunshine into the foyer. Their shadows cast on the hardwood inside - backs burning in the heat of the sun. Misty’s hair falls into her eyes, and she uses the back of her hand to push it out of the way. 

 

“The door.” Misty whispers, her eyes widening as she tips her head to alert Cordelia’s attention to the mentioned object. Indeed, there is something on the door. Above the bloodied handprints, a scrap of paper moves gently in the humid, sticky breeze. The ink on the paper, curly but rushed in the obviously hasty conditions it was written in, catches Cordelia’s eye. 

 

“It’s a note.” Her fingers grab for it, pulling at the thin paper til it rips from the metallic duct tape that kept it securely on the wooden slab. The top is ripped from being torn down, but still, the older blonde can clearly read the first line.  _ Dearest Cordelia,  _ it opens with. 

 

_ I apologize for the helter-skelter of this letter. The fence has given in on the back lawn of our humble accommodations.  _ _ The dead seem to be drawn to the back door as of now. The few that outflow amongst the sides are being taken care of by Kyle as I write this for you. Madison has packed a bag; we’ve grabbed only the essentials, but don’t fret yours are alongside the supplies. I convinced them all we should leave a bit for you upon your return. You’ll find a bag under the porch stairs.   _

 

_ Follow the highway North East, dear. We’re going to head for the coast - Bay Saint Louis, like we’d been talking about. It seems the dead have expedited our plan.  _

 

_ Love,  _

 

_ Auntie Myrtle.  _

  
  
  
  



End file.
